


Mad Max: Road to the Stanley Cup

by raleighpuppy



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate universe- NHL, Citadel and War Boys are the names of rival hockey teams ok, F/F, F/M, Max Has A Dog, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Pretend with me that the NHL is co-ed, Suicidal Thoughts, nice I think this is mm's first hockey AU on here and I'm writing it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:11:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raleighpuppy/pseuds/raleighpuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the NHL due to traumas related to the deaths of his wife and son in a fiery car accident, a very damaged Max Rockatansky makes his return playing for Las Vegas Citadel, a team with a longstanding rival with the Atlanta War Boys.<br/>The road to the Stanley Cup is a long one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good and Bad

**Author's Note:**

> There are suicidal thoughts in this chapter. I want to provide a warning for that. They're not actively suicidal if that makes sense? It's more passive in the "I could do......" sense. No one attempts suicide. 
> 
> On a happier note, here it is: the hockey AU I said I'd write at the end of my weredingo fic, which is called Howl if you want to read that! I hope you enjoy it and if you have any questions, please ask.

Ice hockey.

It's an art, really, the perfect balance of preciseness and beauty and raw power all coalesced into one sport. A hockey player must be able to ice skate both gracefully and quickly and with expert balance, all while being powerful enough to pack a punch and smart enough to plan plays. Not only that, but they must preform well under pressure. 

It's surprisingly therapeutic, despite the trades and managers and public life and how high stakes games become. The game is therapeutic when the players get lost in it, when it's just them and the ice and the puck, and the screaming crowds melt away into nothingness. 

And the NHL is the crowning jewel, the best of the best. Next to the WNHL, of course, which doesn't exist anymore. At some point, it became ridiculous, tempers flared. There's one league, a co-ed league comprised of men and women and nonbinary players and players all over the board. 

It's all about the thrill of the game and how well you play it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Max Rockatansky stands outside the rink taking deep breaths, feeling like he either wants to die or throw up. And he considers it. He's feet away from a major road. He could do it; he could throw himself on it and rid himself of the constant pain of his knee, his head, the ghosts. 

The click of an opening door and the rush of AC into the hot dry air pull him out of his thoughts, and he blinks. There's a woman there and he isn't expecting people. Well, logically he is since he's meeting his New Team-- the word hurts; he doesn't like it, doesn't want a new one when the old one was good-- but people are jarring; they surprise him. He doesn't like surprises. They're not good for him despite how his shrink tells him they're good, tells him to talk, and he's shaking already.

He knows this woman. He's seen her pictures, heard all about her, despite his disappearance from the NHL After. 

Furiosa.

She's the team captain of the Las Vegas Citadel, a beast on the ice, a marvel to watch. And she's managed to keep her private life, well, private. 

He could almost respect her if she didn't look at him like a cat sizing up a mouse. 

His mouth feels dry, while his palms are a sweaty mess.

Furiosa stands with her hands, one flesh-and-bone and the other a lightweight prosthetic tough enough to take a beating on the ice, on her hips as she studies him, takes mental notes. 

He's not exactly what she expected. She's seen the videos, the whole team has, of his plays, his skill on the ice. He was powerful and reliable, while the man before he stands folded in on himself like he wants nothing more than to disappear and can't look her in the eyes. Perhaps, she fears, the team was right. 

We can't take him," Toast whispers in the back of her skull, an echo from the team meeting exact a week ago. "You know what happened. We all do."

"It wasn't his playing that made him leave the NHL," Furiosa fires back. "He might still be good."

"He's a mental case," Toast sighs. "He absolutely lost it. Look, at best he's an anxious suicidal mess with debilitating PTSD." 

The redhead who sits next to Furiosa chimes in next. "We should give him a chance." 

"Why?" Dag asks, not a hint of venom in her voice; it's all curiosity. 

"Because we were given a second chance, not at hockey, but at being something," Capable explains. "We're of abuse survivors and I realize Max's situation is different, but he's probably got a lot of the same problems we do." 

Angharad, not the team captain, but their defacto leader, who kept a neutral facial expression for the majority of the conversation, smiles. And that, the opinion of Angharad, seals the deal.

Max Rockatansky is on their team.

In present time, he nervously swallows, scratches at his face, pulls his hair. Jesus Christ, the man never stops moving, whether he's scanning the area, biting his lip, moving his hands. And, quite frankly, it makes her a little nervous too.

"Max," she greets. "Welcome to the team."

"Thanks." He still doesn't look at her and his voice is hoarse, as if from disuse. 

Wordlessly, she opens the door and walks down a long hallway, half expecting him to follow and half expecting him to flee. He follows, staying away from the darker corners in the long hallways and occasionally speeding up, almost like he's running from something. She stops in front of the changing room door. 

"I assume you know the team's history?" she asks, turning to face him. 

He nods very quickly and jerkily, but doesn't speak. 

She bites back a sigh and gives her speech anyway. 

"Citadel has always been based in Las Vegas, though it was originally a WNHL team. When the NHL and WNHL merged, the team managed to stay all-women, except Angharad. Since joining the all-inclusive NHL, our biggest rival has been the Atlanta War Boys. We've made the playoffs five times and have one Stanley Cup, which--"

"Saw that game," he mumbles. 

"--we won 1-0 in overtime. Our team is small and we've known each other for years. Make anyone on the team uncomfortable and you're off. Got it?"

He looks scared, eyes wide and shaky. Good. She wants him scared or at least a little weary. He quickly nods, but doesn't speak.

With a satisfied grin, she turns and pushes open the doors to the locker room, which may become an issue since there's only the one room-- the team was all women (and Angharad who's agender); they didn't need another locker room for men-- and the team might not feel comfortable with Max there. She can feel his presence behind him, intense anxiety coming off him in waves. And she's suddenly aware of how small their locker room is, how shabby it looks. But the team looks great as they turn to the door and greet the team's newest member with grins and waves. 

"Team," Furiosa announces, "this is Max. Max, this is--" She points to each one as she introduces them. "--Toast, Cheedo, Capable, Dag, and Angharad." 

They go around in a circle, each person saying something about themselves and their position on the ice. Max has done this before; it's monotonous and familiar and it's not hard. All situations can be divided into two categories: Good and Bad.

Being greeted at the door was Bad. This, so far, is Good.

The redhead starts the introductions. "I'm Capable." She pauses like she's expecting a particular comment; Max doesn't deliver. "I'm the left defenseman and I'm glad you're on the team."

Next is a blond with scars on zir forehead Max hasn't commented on. "I'm Angharad and I'm the goalie. Also, please use zir pronouns for me, please."

Max nods, mumbles, "Will do." 

The next speaker has short brown hair, but not as short as Furiosa's. "I'm Toast and I'm a defenseman. I can play either side." 

"I'm Dag." Her name is as odd as her body language and overall appearance. She's so pale and looks too small for hockey. "I'm a center. I have a garden and pet lizard." 

The next speaker stands close to Dag. She looks young, like she's the youngest on the team, and Max suppresses that parental urge, those awful feelings he doesn't need or want anymore, not After. "I'm Cheedo and I'm a defenseman. I also bake." 

Max looks to Furiosa, the only one who hasn't introduced herself out of the Old Team, which he spells with capital letters in his head like all important events, like Before and After.

"You know who I am," is all Furiosa says. "Anything else you want to know, you can ask." 

Max blinks, surprised. He struggles, trying to find his own voice, something he misplaces often among the anxiety and flashbacks and suicidal thoughts. A voice is the easiest thing to misplace next to pills, he's learned. And he can't afford to lose either, not right now with the New Team looking at him and with fans and a PR department to please and games to play and hopefully win. Slowly, he opens and closes his mouth, but no words come out.

Eventually, he finds it, his voice. 

"You know. I'm Max." He nervously scans the room, paying particular attention to corners and avoiding eye contact. The corner of his mouth twitches, almost forming a smile, multiple times, but always falling short. "I'm right wing." He pulls at his hair. "Dog. I have one." 

Dag smiles. "What's its name?"

"Dog," he answers. This is Good; he can talk about dogs. "Australian cattle dog." 

"I noticed you accent," Capable comments. "I never noticed it before--" She doesn't say before like it's important and it stings a little; he doesn't know why. "--but it's pretty clear now. Are you Australian?"

He nods. "Sydney." 

"What brought you to the states?" Capable asks.

This time he smiles, but it's not pretty. Really, it's more of a grimace than anything, but it's the closest to a smile he can manage. 

"Hockey." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting geared up to go on the ice is a ritual. In the morning, getting dressed is a chore. Getting out of bed is a struggle Max often loses. He's winning more now, actually, and that's Good, but it's still hard. 

Lacing up his skates is definitely Good, one of his favorite Good things. Even After, he'd sit on the floor and tie and retie and tie and retie his skates again and again, even though he wouldn't-- "Couldn't! Couldn't!" he wants to scream-- go out on the ice. He doesn't realize he's tied and retied his laces at least three times until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Max?" someone-- He looks up; it's Furiosa-- asks. 

He grunts. "Repetitive. 's good." 

She hums understandingly, doesn't press the issue. After he finishes retying his laces, she helps pull him to his feet and they walk out onto the ice together. 

They're having him square off against Cheedo, try to get past her, and score on Angharad. Sounds easy enough. Cheedo's small, but he knows better than to underestimate small defensemen. Most of them are exceptionally fast and witty to make up for a loss in size. 

His breathing picks up as he expects the whistle. By the time Furiosa blows the whistle to start, he's almost worked himself up to a panic. 

But playing is Good and it helps.

Out on the ice and it's him and the puck and the thumping of his heart. He tightens his grip on the stick, and then makes his move. The stick's a part of him, an extension of his arm; his skates aren't a hinderance to his speed or agility, but a great boost. 

He moves to the left and Cheedo mirrors his every move, intercepting his dance to steal the puck. But he fights back. He was right; she's fast on her skates, fast with her stick, good at mirroring his every move and predicting what he'll do next.

He sees a shot and he takes it. Barely, just barely, the puck shoots past Cheedo, but Angharad's too fast and zir glove closes down on the puck.

Max huffs, but Angharad smiles, compliments him anyway when he's berating himself in his head and shaking. His shrink says he needs supportive people and ze is a supportive person; he decides ze is Good. 

~~~~~~~~

Furiosa watches him skate with a thin frown; she studies him at their daily practices all week. 

He's not bad, but she wouldn't say good, not yet, not until he's tamed his nerves a bit. He can skate and shoot and plan plays, but he shakes and trembles and avoids eye contact. He's not threatening, not in the slightest, as he hunches over. They need him threatening; he's a big guy and he has such potential to terrify, but he's too neurotic, too unsure to live up to that potential, what she feels he can do, what she saw him do in all the games she watched. 

Mainly, she worries about him. He gets along well enough with the team, which means he hardly talks to anyone and has no reason to not get along with anyone. He's quiet, reserved, but she doesn't think he's necessarily shy. 

It's a by-product of trauma and she knows it well. 

He's scared. 

"Hey, Max," Angharad says in the locker room after practice on Friday. "We're all going out tonight. Wanna come?" 

He pauses, in the middle of untying his laces, and blinks. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side and blinks like he didn't understand or catch the question. 

"Want to go out with us tonight?" Capable asks. "We're going out to a little bar and we might do some karaoke too." 

The thought of being around people, being in public, sounds like too much and he wants to tell some bullshit lie about Dog being sick, but it's then he catches Furiosa looking at him and he swears he hears his shrink's voice saying, "Max, you need to make connections again" in the back of his head. So he gives in despite his trembling hands, sweaty palms, and dry mouth. 

"Sure," he breathes. "I'll come."

Cheedo, who's taken quite a shine to Max, lights up. "Great!" 

Which is how Max finds himself hopped up on anti-anxiety meds and god knows what other meds to keep himself from crying or having a panic attack or throwing up on himself, while sitting between Cheedo and Toast and across from Furiosa at a table in some small local tavern. Despite all the meds, his heart rate feels too high, or at least he thinks it does. He wants to touch his neck to feel it, but he's scared to would look weird. Would it look weird? And he starts to take quick breaths because dammit he swore he wouldn't do this tonight. 

The team chatters around him and it starts to blur into meaningless noise, blending in with the sounds of the tavern. A TV shows some sports game that's not hockey so he doesn't care. Some sleazy guy is trying to talk up a much younger girl, but she's not buying it. Someone's singing along very off-key to Sweet Caroline, which he would be doing if he didn't feel suicidal thoughts knocking at the back of his skull as quiet whispers of, "You could overdose tonight. Take all your pills. You could walk into traffic outside." 

Suddenly, a noise breaks out through the muddled mess.

"Max? Max?"

He blinks, looks up, and he meets Furiosa's gaze and she looks concerned, which worries him. No one's looked at him like that, like they care, in a long time. And it hurts.

He has to get out. 

Furiosa chews on her lip as she watches Max's throat work, but no words come and, Jesus Christ, what if Toast was right? What if they shouldn't have taken him because he's not well?

If something happens to him, it's her fault, she feels. She didn't ask for this, didn't ask for a team to take care of, though she did take them in. It was at her shelter for battered women, mainly escaping domestic abuse, that they all met. 

She's an expert at feeling guilty over situations she didn't cause. When Furiosa does it, it's an art. 

"Hey, Max," Furiosa calls across the table. "Why don't you, um, tell me about your dog--" She nervously grins, attempting to reassure him a little. "--outside?" 

His eyes widen as he nods, understanding. 

The rest of the team watches them leave, and Angharad and Toast exchange a knowing look that makes Capable laugh and Cheedo grin into her drink. 

Outside, he leans against the cool brick wall and loudly sighs before burying his face in his hands and groaning. She sits next to him, also sighing. Cautiously, she places a hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezes, letting him lean into her. 

"'m sorry," he mumbles. "Thought I could do this one easy thing." 

She nods. "I understand. It's not always easy. Don't beat yourself up too bad if it isn't." 

"You know what happened." He doesn't look at her and he doesn't say it as a question. 

Again, she nods, remembering the headlines: Hockey Star Max Rockatansky's Son and Wife Dead!, Fiery Crash Kills NHL-er Max Rockatansky's Family. And then the subsequent headlines detailing Max's decline, the breakdowns and panic attacks on the ice, and then his final game in which he savagely attacked another player for his comments, putting him in the hospital. 

"I do," she replies. 

"Kinda fucked me up." He laughs. 

"I lost my arm in a car accident." She doesn't know why she's saying this, but a part of her thinks he needs it. "I was nine. I'd already started playing then and it was supposed to end my career. No one thought I'd keep playing or even be any good if I did." 

He takes a deep breath, pulls at his hair, and then meets her eyes for perhaps the first time. And she finds it hard to focus on anything except the fact he has really nice eyes. 

"I'll text the team and tell them," she adds.

"Tell them what?" 

She takes out her phone. "You weren't feeling well and I took you home."

That's awarded with a small grin. "Thanks." 

She gets to her feet, and then pulls him up. He claims he lives close enough to walk, so the duo strolls down the sidewalk, despite the heat. The longer they walk, the better he feels and he remembers his shrink's words: "Don't be afraid of connections. Even if you lose someone, you had them once. Fondly remember when you had them." And it hurts a little less.

As they approach the door, a dog barks from the inside and Max smiles. It's the biggest smile she's seen on him yet and she tries to contain her own smile. A dog, an Australian cattle dog, bounds out of the house once the door is unlocked and opened, heading straight to Furiosa to check her out. She kneels to meet the dog, which furiously wags its tail.

"That's Dog," Max says. He stumbles over his next words, but eventually gets them out. "Want to come inside?" 

As he puts on some B-rated horror film he doesn't remember seeing in theaters ever or buying or watching at home and she sits on the couch with a beer in hand, while Dog lies near her feet, he feels much better, much lighter than he has in a while. 

Furiosa is Good after all, he decides. Very Good.


	2. Good Intentions

Max quietly hums as he skates in circles-- well, it's more of an oval-- around the edge of the rink, taking deep breaths and counting his steps. It's easy to get lost in the noise, in the little scrapes of his blades against the ice, and in his breathing. And the air feels nice on his face. Vaguely, he hears voices, other voices, but they're far, too far to be Jessie's or Goose's and they're not yelling, not asking him why. 

Quickly. Quickly. He suppresses it, tries to stop thinking of Jessie and Goose and how he fucked up. He always fucks up; it's always him. And he feels sick.

The thoughts come, the Bad kind, the ones he's supposed to have control of or whatever. He's tried explaining again and again to his shrink that you don't control thoughts and that's what makes them great, but that only earns him another, "Control them, Mr. Rockatansky." He can't control them; yet another way he's fucked up.

He falls onto his knees on the ice and his stomach lurches. His vision spins and he feels Bad, worse than he's felt in a long time now as he hears Jessie scream his name, and he screams back, a wordless, animalistic cry.

He starts cataloging: taking a skate to the neck, running out into the street, jumping from the rafters. And it doesn't stop. He's vaguely aware of the fact his mouth is too dry and his hands too shaky as he attempts to halt what he calls "passive suicidal ideation" because there's no other way to describe not actively wanting to die or to commit suicide, but having his mind constantly supply him with methods. 

Toast, about to step onto the ice, freezes in her tracks before turning around and running back into the locker room where the rest of the team's preparing for practice, while Capable skates towards him. The redhead drops to her knees.

"Max?" she asks.

He pounds the ice with his fists, screaming, until he eventually tires of that and motionlessly lies face-down on the ice, sobbing. Capable tentatively reaches over and gent rubs small circles on his back. 

"You're okay," she whispers. "You're okay, Max." 

In the locker room, Toast sighs before plopping down in a chair. She should feel good, a small part of her thinks, because she was right and Max isn't well enough to play. He can't take the mental strain. Usually, she rejoices in being right. This time, the reaction doesn't feel appropriate.

"Max is having a breakdown on the ice," she says matter-of-factly. "Capable's with him." 

Before Toast can further explain the situation, Furiosa is gone. She moves as fast as she can, whether from a team captain's protectiveness or that of a new friend, the team doesn't know, but she's crouching next to Capable as soon as she can. 

Angharad frowns. "You don't sound happy," ze observes. 

"I didn't want to be right," Toast admits. 

"Max?" Furiosa asks. She grabs his hands, trying to stop him from hitting the ice and hurting himself. "Max, you're okay. You're okay. You're on the ice. You play for Las Vegas Citadel. You're our left wing. And you're at practice right now and you're fine." 

He quietly whines and nods.

The rest of the team, minus Capable, watches from closer to the locker room until Furiosa gives them a nod that's more than just a nod, and Angharad skates over. Furiosa needs the help; she's not kind the way Angharad is. 

"Do you want to go home?" ze asks. "You shouldn't practice if you're not well."

"The game," he mumbles. "Saturday." 

Ze nods. "Yeah, that's Saturday, but being rested is more important."

"Can skate an' play still." He rubs at his face, pulls at his hair. "Good." 

"Are you sure?" Ze frowns. "If you need to go home, you can, okay?" 

"Don't want." He shakes his head. 

He's a mess all through practice, missing the puck and falling and skating into people. He responds too slowly to commands and the rest of the team. There's an odd feeling building up in his chest and it's not pneumonia; he knows what that feels like. It's different, deeper, and sicker somehow, and it weighs him down when he should be light on his feet.

"He's a mess," Toast says in the locker room after Max has left; he always leaves first. "We can't have him on the team if we want to be competitive." 

Angarhad sighs. "Good luck finding someone as good as him by Saturday," ze replies.

"Good?" Toast shoots back. "He's terrible!"

Dag speaks up from where she sits on the bench in front of her locker. "When he's well, he's a good shot." 

"But he's not well," Toast points out.

Capable frowns and bites her lip, a nervous habit of hers. "We should give him a chance. Maybe today was just a bad day? We've all had those before." 

Cheedo nods in her agreement. "She's right." 

Toast turns to Furiosa, hoping for backup, but she loses all hope for support once she starts speaking. "We're keeping Max on the team. No questions asked." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

None of practice sticks with him. 

By the time he's at home after a horrible drive marked by his mind throwing all possible deaths and suicides at him and lying on the couch, still not having showered-- he can't bring himself to do it; it's too much and he's tired, the real kind of soul tired that weighs him down and makes normal tasks impossible, strips him of the ability to function-- there's a large gap in his memory where the entire day after skating in ovals around the rink should be. Slowly, he takes out his phone and stares at his background image: a picture of him, Sprog, Jessie, and Goose taken Before in which they're all happy and he's smiling. He's wearing a genuine smile and holding his son and Jessie's caught mid-laugh, while Goose has his arm around his shoulder. 

He should feel tears threatening to fall, but there aren't any. He's too tired to cry. 

Dog hops up onto the couch and curls up next to him, leaning over to lick his owner's face. He wags his tail so hard his entire body shakes and Max manages a small smile. Thank god for Dog, he thinks, he's probably saved my life. And he doesn't know what he's done to deserve such a good dog. Not that there are bad dogs, but Dog is one of the most Good things in the world, he thinks. 

He loudly sighs as he drops his phone and it slides on to the floor. After a few seconds, he picks it back up to do some serious Googling, starting with "long term effects of loneliness," which generates lovely titles such as "Why You Should Treat Loneliness as a Chronic Illness" and "The Science of Loneliness: How Isolation Can Kill You" and "Why Loneliness Can be Deadly." Which does nothing to calm his frayed nerves and does wonders for his anxiety levels as well.

It's a full body ache, that's all he can think of to call it, and it's a mind ache too. It's easier, he's learned, to explain mental illnesses in physical terms and it makes him feel a little better when he fools himself into thinking he's physically ill instead of irredeemably fucked in the head.

His stomach lurches and he gags, but nothing comes up. He didn't eat breakfast because he'd already felt sick that morning and he'd eaten too much at dinner the night before because he was nervous about practice-- damn the fact he's a nervous eater-- so he thought it would all cancel out.

Instead, he feels worse.

And his phone lies on the ground, taunting him, daring him to do something all normal people do like calling or texting someone. But who? And what for? A part of him wants that, wants a person to talk to, but all the people he's talked to, like Goose, are dead. 

Suddenly, his phone makes a sound he's never heard it make before and he jumps, startled, which scares Dog into barking at nothing in particular. He moves very slowly towards it, his heart pounding and hands shaking. Slowly, slowly, he picks it up.

A text. He got a text. He vaguely remembers exchanging phone numbers with his team mates on his first day.

Furiosa: feeling any better?  
Max: yes  
Max: thank you  
Max: why are you texting me?  
Furiosa: just wanted to know if you're okay and will be on Saturday for the game  
Max: I'll be ok  
Max: I promise 

He rubs a hand down his face and quietly groans, deciding he doesn't like this, that texting is uncomfortable and weird and he doesn't like it. Sure, not having to make eye contact is a plus and it's great she can't see him lying in his sweaty clothes on his junky old couch, but it's weird. Dog whines in reply to his groan. 

Furiosa: you should come over for dinner

He frowns and looks down at his phone. This is the most texting he's ever done and now he's being asked to dinner? His shrink had said returning to the NHL, reconnecting with people, would be Good and he was unsure. He was damn right to be unsure because now it's awful because people are texting him and he has to reply. Bullshit.

So he gives it a shot.

Max: ???????????

He groans. "Oh, god. Dog, I fucked up. I'm talking to a person and I fucked it up."

Dog sympathetically whines and licks his owner's face. 

"I'm never going outside or talking to anyone again." 

Furiosa: dinner. come to my house for food. you have my address 

He takes a deep breath. "Maybe I didn't entirely fuck up. Thanks, Dog." 

Dog barks and wags his little stump tail.

Max: sure  
Max: thank you   
Furiosa: see you soon  
Max: ok

He's about to leave the house, seconds from crossing the threshold, when he realized he hasn't showered, so he rushes to the bathroom, takes the fastest shower he's ever taken. He haphazardly grabs a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt that doesn't look too bad and his favorite leather jacket that's not a security blanket, thank you very much.

The driveway is it's own dilemma in that he has to chose between his trusty V8 interceptor and motorcycle. It's close, it really is, because the two vehicles and Dog and photographs and hockey are all he has, but the motorcycle wins in the end. 

He feels free as he zips down the high way, the wind hitting his face; it grounds him to feel the wind. It tells him there's something else out there, that he's not the only thing in the universe that exists-- and he curses high school teachers for mentioning that bullshit about Deacartes and how he said you can only know the things you're touching are real so you're never sure who else is real so you might as well be alone in the universe-- and it calms him a little. At least the wind is real. 

Furiosa hums as she digs through her fridge for something suitable to eat. Well, suitable to share. Suitable to eat on her own and suitable to share with a team mate-- maybe friend?-- are two entirely different things. 

And she doesn't know why she's so nervous because it's Max, the guy who has breakdowns at practice and who's one companion in life his is dog named Dog; he shouldn't be intimidating. She squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath. She's survived abuse and losing an arm. She can survive an awkward dinner with one of the most awkward people she's ever met. 

Max pulls into the driveway next to a large rusty van that looks like it was probably white at some point, but now it's permanently rusted. He vaguely remembers Dag telling him about Furiosa's "war rig"; maybe this is it, he thinks, it certainly looks like it's seen a war or two with the massive dent in its side. 

Furiosa hears his approach, or at least she assumes-- really, she hopes; she has a motorcycle and it would be nice to have someone to ride with even if he's a bit (okay, a lot) socially awkward-- the approaching motorcycle is Max. Her suspicion is confirmed when she watches him dismount the bike from the window. 

But he doesn't come to the door. 

Instead, he stares at her van, christened the War Rig, tilts his head to the side like a confused dog when it hears a weird sound, and frowns. Quietly, she sighs because Jesus Christ why him? And she opens the front door. 

"You want to come inside?" she asks Mr. A-Leather-Jacket-Is-Appropriate-Clothing-in-a-Desert. 

He blinks and looks towards the house, and then nods. "Mmhmm." 

She doesn't know what to do with him in her living room, so she pops in a movie. It's something from the 1980s about cars or something, she thinks, but he seems interested enough to justify keeping it on. Good. At least this should be better than the dinner of fish sticks and potato salad she managed to throw together. She hopes he's not a picky eater. 

"Why?" he asks. It doesn't sound like he's going to finish the thought; it sounds final. Instead, he gestures to the room as a whole.

"You seem like you need it," she answers. "Something to do." 

He sighs, rubs at his face. "Yeah, yeah." 

She hands him a beer. "Saw your motorcycle. I have one too." 

He cracks a grin at that. Or the beer. She can't tell which he's smiling about. Maybe it's both. "Really?" 

"Mmhmm." She nods. 

The silence between them is uneasy and tense and neither one of them looks at the other.

Surprisingly, Max breaks the silence with, "You know, it scared me when you texted. Never heard my phone make that noise before." 

She snorts. "What? No one texts you?"

"Dogs can't text," he replies and he laughs a little at his own joke. 

"Maybe one day." She takes a sip of her beer. "You okay with fish sticks?"

"I'm honestly so hungry I'd be good with dog food."

"Max, please don't eat dog food."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Before long, she's really into this movie she doesn't remember buying or seeing in theaters or ever watching before now and they're leaning against each other so she can feel him laugh and shake. It's not shivering, she's sure of that, but he's a shaky person. He's warm and, quite frankly, kind of comfortable and her eyes slide shut. 

There's a smell, a really bad one, and she groans.

"Max?" she grumbles.

She feels something move underneath her. Oh god. She snaps awake, panicking. She's on top of him! Her quick motions startle him and he jumps, falling off the couch. 

"Sorry," she says. "Do you smell that?"

He nods. "Yeah, I--"

"My fish sticks!" 

"Oh god!" 

Furiosa hops off the couch, leaping over Max who lies on the ground, and runs to the kitchen. Max goes to his feet, ignoring an ache in his bad knee, and stumbles into the kitchen, heading to the sink, while Furiosa stands by the oven. He grabs a cup from the side of the sink piled with dirty dishes and fills it up with water that's hotter than he intends and hurts his hands. 

"Move!" he calls before dumping the water on the oven.

Furiosa's turned the oven off and stands with oven mitts on, considering how to remove horribly burned fish sticks that are actually on fire from an oven that's been on far far too long. It's a daunting task. Thankfully, Max dumps most of the water on the fish sticks, putting out the most threatening of the flames, so she grabs the tray and throws it into the sink, nearly hitting Max.

"Jesus Christ!" he yells.

"Water! Water!"

He turns the faucet and douses the tray in water. Nervously, she bites her lower lip.

"Want to, um, go out for dinner?" 

"Yeah." He nods. "Yeah." 

Wordlessly, she leads the way out of the house, locking the door behind him, and to the war rig. He's silent until they're on the road, and then he starts laughing and she's afraid he's lost it because he sounds absolutely fucking hysteric, but she starts laughing too.

"Oh my god," she manages despite how hard she's laughing. "I'm so sorry I threw a fucking pan that's on fire towards you."

He shakes his head, almost in tears because he's laughing so hard. "It's good. It's good." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So," Angharad begins, watching Max and Furiosa with zir hands on zir hips from zir corner of the locker room, "any reason you guys came together in the war rig?"

"I threw fish sticks that were on fire at him," Furiosa offers by way of an answer, cracking a large grin. 

Max snorts. "I almost dumped a cup of boiling water on her," he adds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first game will be next chapter, I swear.
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen the original three Mad Max movies, you're missing out. I've loved them since I was 8 years old. And the dog food line is a reference to that. In The Road Warrior, Max eats a can of dog food.


	3. Game Day

Game day means crowds and yelling and noise and attention and all the things Max hates, all the things that make his skin crawl and heart pound. He used to love game day, used to live for it, when he was a young player with his best friend, Goose, on his team with a wife, Jessie, and a son, Sprog, who'd come to all his games.

And then It happened. 

Game day After means anxiety and sweating and spacing out. It means a killer headache and more Advil than is probably recommended and anti-anxiety meds up the wazoo to keep himself relatively more grounded than he'd be otherwise. It's awful.

He rubs his face and pulls at his hair as he lays out all his medications, being extra careful with the dosing. The last thing he'd want to do it overdose on something on a game day. It would ruin the game. He'd ruin it like he did with a panic attack one time. And he feels a little sick-- well, sicker. 

His phone makes a sound again and it nearly scares him to tears. 

But he recognizes the sound this time; it's a phone call. He only knows that because Furiosa called him one night. It's become a regular thing, calling and texting her, and it's weird because it's a thing normal people do. 

He considers not picking up because he doesn't feel like talking; he's too tired and his mouth feels weird, heavy, like words are too much. But he knows Furiosa, knows she'll call again if he doesn't answer because, apparently, he's worth worrying over. (Really, he doesn't think she thinks he's worth the energy to worry as a person; he's worth it as a part of the team.) 

He picks up his phone. 

"Yes?" he asks. "Why?" 

Furiosa, in her own living room, sighs in disbelief that he'd have to ask why she's calling. 

"Because you called me last night mid-panic attack because you dropped a mug because you're so anxious your hands are shakier than normal and you threw up all because the sound scared you," she answers. "Are you feeling better?" 

Max blinks a few times, trying to remember the events she describes, only to recall a weird blurry feeling-- he doesn't know how to describe what blurry feels that, but that's what the night before was: blurry-- and quick impressions of deep fear. But if he really puts his mind to it, he remembers dropping a cup and it breaking, but nothing after. 

"I'm fine," he answers, only somewhat lying. "Drugged up so don't worry."

She bites her lip. "I don't like the sound of that." 

He laughs and it's a harsher sound than he intends. "Not drug drugs. Medication drugs." 

"You're not feeling sick anymore?" 

She'd almost driven over last night, so scared for him because he wasn't doing well at all. He was sobbing and she could hear him gagging. But he definitely sounds better.

"Tired, but otherwise fine," he answers. 

"You'll be okay for the game?"

"Should be." 

"See you at the rink."

"See you." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He's glad there's no one, meaning no fans, meandering around the rink this early to see him pull up in the Interceptor and carry all his gear into the home locker room. If there were any, he'd probably throw up or freeze in place. Either way, it would make for a pathetic return to the NHL. Surprise! Remember last time when I had a mental breakdown on the ice? Well, I'm just as bad now!

And he has to laugh a little at his own joke because he's fucking hilarious. 

"What're you laughing about?" someone asks and he almost drops his coffee cup he'd come back out to his car for on a second trip.

Dag. It's only her. And he calms down. He likes her. She's definitely really weird, but she's Good. 

"Inside joke," he answers. "With myself." 

"I'm sure it's hilarious," she replies. 

"Want help with your gear?" 

He knows she can carry it all-- she's obviously done it before-- but she's so thin and wiry and so not built for hockey, it worries him still, even though she's been able to knock him down and, according to Cheedo, that was "friendly." But he still takes some of her stuff and she looks grateful. 

"You're coming after the game, right?" she asks as she opens the front door for him.

"Hm?" 

"My place," she explains. "After home games, we all go to my place after. You should come." 

He nods. "Thanks for the invite."

~~~~~~~~~~

It's deafeningly loud and he hates every minute of it, considers wearing earplugs, but he's not sure that's allowed and he doesn't want to talk to any of the referees. He almost jumps at the hand on his shoulder, but calms down when he sees it's only Cheedo. 

"Ready?" she asks.

He nods. "You?" 

"Yeah, but I'm really nervous," she answers. 

"You'll do great," he says and he can't believe he's the one doing the comforting. "Just keep focused and give it your all." 

She's smiling and it's an odd smile; Max doesn't like it much.

"What?" he asks, glancing around the room, and she laughs.

"Nothing." She pats his shoulder. "That was just awfully motivational and energetic for you." 

He frowns. "I'm energetic and motivational all the time." 

Furiosa leads the way onto the ice, practically oozing confidence, and Max has a hard time believing this is the same person who threw a burning tray of fish sticks fresh from the oven at him. Not that he didn't like her then because he did and, looking back on it, it was hilarious, but there's something exciting about seeing the team captain riled up. He misses it, he realizes, he's missed hockey and he's missed games, despite the crowds. 

It hits him the hardest when the cheering starts when they skate out onto the ice to begin warming up and some of them-- the group is either large or loud or maybe both-- start to chant his name and it becomes hard to breathe because he can't believe he still has fans, that people are glad he's back. 

A player-- captain, he corrects himself; he has the captain's C on his jersey-- from the other team skates up to Furiosa and pulls her into a rough hug she returns. 

"Ace!" Furiosa greets. 

A few other members of the Atlanta War Boys skate over to join their captain, so Max, Dag, Cheedo, Toast, and Angharad meet them in the center too. 

The tallest one with really bright blue eyes who's bouncing about like an overgrown puppy introduces himself first. "I'm Nux!" 

Capable grins as she shakes his hand and Max would laugh if Furiosa wasn't glaring daggers at the poor kid. 

His broad friend, the one with staples in his face from a recent injury-- taking a skate to the face, maybe?-- introduces himself next. "Slit." 

The next one looks very young, young enough this has to be either his first or second season. "Morsov."

"Corpus an' Rictus are too proud to talk to the enemy," Ace says, gesturing to a couple men, one very short and the other gigantic, standing together. "But don't mind them." 

Max blinks in surprise as he finds himself pulled into a hug. He doesn't know Ace well. Of course, they'd played against each other before, but they were never friends.

"Welcome back."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The puck drops. 

And all hell breaks loose.

Furiosa wins the puck over for Citadel and passes to their center, Dag, who somehow manages to skate her way past a player as experienced as Ace. She takes a shot at the goal before Morsov meets her only for Nux to bat the puck away with a gloved hand. Slit takes possession of the puck and passes it up to Corpus, who meets Furiosa, but he's very fast and passes her. Cheedo, not at all intimidated by his size since he's not much bigger than her-- he actually looks smaller-- squares her shoulders before skating right at him. 

The two go flying and so does the puck. 

Ace and Dag, the centers, both move at it with Rictus backing Ace up and Max backing Dag up. Max would curse if he had the breath to because, Jesus Christ, Rictus is huge. And, honestly, he's a little scared because he doesn't want to die, not tonight, but he'd never admit it. Ace, with more years of experience, wins the puck, so Max rushes at him to hopefully knock him over and allow Dag to take the puck, but Rictus interferes with a well-aimed blow to the side of Max's head. 

Max hits the ice. Hard. 

"Schlanger!" Dag yells, swinging at Rictus despite how much bigger than her he is. 

Max isn't too sure what that means, but he's glad she takes a swing at him just to see the shocked look on Rictus' face because someone dared do that. His smile only grows when a referee pulls Rictus off Dag and sends him to the penalty box. 

Dag and Max high-five, celebrating the power play. With Rictus off the ice for a few minutes, they have a huge advantage. 

Dag takes possession of the puck and passes it to Furiosa who barely scraped past Slit and passes the puck to Max. Morsov nervously skates at Max, but he's not big enough or fast enough or confident enough in his abilities to knock him over or steal the puck. Max feels a bit bad for the kid, figures it's his first season, but doesn't go easy on him. 

And he takes the shot as soon as he sees the opening, but Nux expertly deflects it. The kid's good. 

However, Furiosa is faster than Slit and she manages to hit the puck back towards the goal. Nux dives and it looks like he's got it when the siren goes off and the rink fills with cheers. 

Max and Furiosa glide towards each other, colliding in a hug. 

The remainder of the first period remains 1-0 in the Las Vegas Citadel's favor. 

Ace wins the puck after the drop at the beginning of the second period and somehow drives straight through Dag. Cheedo skates up to meet him in the center and, though she's not as skillful or fast as Ace, manages to delay him just enough for Capable to steal the puck and make her way towards the War Boys' goal with it. For a few seconds there, Nux looks like he's about to fall over, poor kid's practically swooning, and Max holds back his laughter as he skates towards the goal to help Capable. 

She passes because Ace stands in her way and Max takes a swing. He closes his eyes and holds his breath. The buzzer sounds. And he laughs as Capable crashes into him and pushes him down to his knees on the ice. 

2-0.

The War Boys, scolded by their angry team owner-- Max thinks his name is Joe? He can't remember it exactly, but he's certain he's read somewhere that Rictus and Corpus are his sons-- come back swinging and score within the next few minutes with a well-timed assist from Corpus and goal by Ace Angharad just barely lets through. 

2-1. 

It's in that play that Furiosa notices something: Rictus isn't smart. He's making no decisions, following the elementary plays they all learned as kids. All he has going for him is his size and brute strength, and that makes him intimidating, but he's not good, not like Corpus or Ace. 

"Max!" she shouts over the noise of the game, hoping he can hear her. "Go for Rictus!"

"What?" he yells back. "He weights at least twice my weight!" 

"Go for him!" 

The next play, he does as she says and attempts to plow through Rictus and he can see it on his face; he's confused. People don't physically challenge him. And it shakes his confidence, allowing Max to pass him with the puck. He takes the shot.

3-1.

The second period ends with Citadel up by two and Joe looking absolutely furious. 

Ace wins the puck in the drop again, but passes it back to Morsov of all players and he's shaking with nervousness, frozen in place with the puck, and Joe looks like he's going to have a heart attack as Dag rushes him and takes the puck. Luckily for the War Boys, Ace interferes and Slit isn't too far behind. She makes a quick pass back to Cheedo, who passes to Capable before anyone can approach her. Capable passes up to Furiosa, now hounded by Corpus. She knows Corpus, knows he's smart and will find a way the longer she has the puck, so she aimlessly hits it away.

Luckily, Max takes possession and manages to plow through a very confused Rictus. However, Ace comes to meet him, so he hits and hopes it connects the way he plans. Morsov moves to block the goal, but Dag beats him to it and the increased traffic blocks Nux's view so he can't block the puck. Dag swings and the clock counts down. 

5 seconds.

4 seconds.

3 seconds.

2 seconds.

The buzzer goes off.

4-1.

1 second.

Game over.

She drops her stick and skates over to Furiosa who's wearing the biggest grin Max has ever seen on her. It's a good look, he decides, and he'd like to see it more on her. 

Suddenly, he feels something on his back. 

"We won!" Capable says. 

A hug. It's a hug. 

He hugs her back, laughing. "Hell yeah, we did!" 

Angharad joins them, pulling them both close and laughing. He's never played before or against zir before, but can clearly tell why they call zir Splendid when ze blocks shots like that. And, suddenly, the whole team's there, laughing and hugging. He doesn't feel claustrophobic or like dying; his mind doesn't even supply him with possible suicides, not when he's so full of adrenaline and laughing like this. It's uncomfortable. Someone's elbowing him and someone else steps on his foot and someone else is under his arm. 

He doesn't have a care in the world. 

Joe watches. 

Joe watches from the bench with a thin frown as his sons sit on either side of him and the others skate up to the winners to congratulate them. Ace has always been too friendly to them, he thinks, even if they all played together, minus Max, for years before making the NHL. 

And Joe would know. He was their coach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you finally get to see why Joe wasn't on any of the team rosters or mentioned anywhere else in the fic so far.
> 
> I realize Toast wasn't mentioned at all. You can only have 6 players maximum on the ice at a time and Citadel has 7 people on the team so I tend to forget about someone always and this time it was Toast. I'll be sure this won't happen in the future and I'm so so sorry I forgot her. 
> 
> Just so you know, I start school (and I'll be a senior) on Monday and that will effect how much time I have to write! I'll try to update as often as possible within what my classes allow. 
> 
> Also, just out of curiosity, are any of you hockey fans? And what's your team? I'm a Redwings fan. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading, subscribing, and leaving comments and kudos! Feel free to ask any questions if you have any!


	4. Joe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay there are a lot of warnings for this chapter. As you can tell from the title, it's about Joe. Past rape is discussed. I should also warn for suicidal thoughts and self-harm.

Dag has a nice house. It's small, as it's just her, Cheedo, a cat, and an assortment of smaller reptiles and plants that don't require much space. The outside is painted a nice light pink and the pastel theme continues on the inside walls. The living room is cozy but spacious to allow team get togethers like this. The wall furthest from Max is lined with bookshelves and covered in plants he stares at in his vain attempt to stay awake.

"I invited them over," Dag says.

Max quietly hums, warm and comfortable after returning home after the game, showering, changing into his pajamas, and driving to Dag's house where he now sits on the couch between Furiosa and Capable, both also in their pajamas, and holding a mug of some sort of herbal tea with his eyes closed. He can feel Furiosa move next to him to accept her mug, and Capable quietly sighs. Across the room, Cheedo has claimed a chair for herself and Dag, who is apparently her girlfriend. Angharad sits on the floor with zir legs crossed and Toast, who came down with a cold a couple days ago, is at home and has to miss the game.

Max realizes he's missed this. He's missed having a team.

"Who?" Angharad asks.

"Ace," Dag answers as she settles down next to Cheedo with her own mug of herbal tea. "And whoever else from the team who wanted to come. Sounds like it'll be him, Slit, Nux, and Morsov."

"No Corpus or Rictus?" Furiosa asks.

Max quietly hums. He can feel himself growing more and more tired as the adrenaline from the game lessens. He can finally also feel the pain from being socked in the face by Rictus. The warmth from being sandwiched between Furiosa and Capable does nothing to prevent him from falling asleep. Slowly, he lowers his head and closes his eyes only to snap awake again. No, he thinks, I can't fall asleep, not on Dag's couch when everyone else is awake.

The last thing he's aware of before everything goes black is someone taking his mug from him and he almost argues, but he's too tired. Finally, he lets his eyes close and stops fighting.

"I see why you like him," Dag comments.

"What?" Furiosa asks. "I do not--"

"She didn't say it was you who liked him," Capable points out with a grin and Furiosa scowls.

"Well, I don't."

Dag laughs as she leaves the room. While in the hallway, she digs through the linen closet for one of her nicer blankets. She settles on a yellow blanket with pink polka dots, and drapes it over Max, who quietly mumbles in his sleep. He snuggles into the blanket.

Suddenly, someone's firmly knocking on the door and they can hear arguing.

"'m tellin' you this is the wrong house, asshat!" someone hisses.

"Dude, I know how to read. This is it!" someone else replies.

"Slit, leave Morsov alone," Ace snaps.

"If he weren't so mediocre--" Slit begins only to be cut off by Cheedo opening the door and the others, minus Max, laughing.

"Told you it's the right house," Morsov mumbles as he follows the others, led by Ace, inside.

Furiosa stiffens as she feels something touch her side, the side Max is on. But Ace's laugh as he sits on the floor next to Angharad helps diffuse some of the tension, even though she still imagines hands, his hands, all over her and his threats if she ever told. And she turns with a lump in her throat to see it's just Max; he fell over so he's not sitting up anymore and he happened to fall in her direction, not Capable's. Immediately, she calms down because it's just Max and he's fast asleep.

Nux sits near Capable's feet, suddenly very bashful and quiet and Furiosa swears he's blushing. Slit snorts as he sits next to Nux and Morsov sits closer to Ace, probably scared to sit next to Slit. From the sound of it, the two argue often, or, really, Slit picks on Morsov often.

"You all did great tonight," Ace says. "Miss playin' with ya, though."

"Yeah?" Furiosa replies. "Me too."

"We couldn't play with him anymore," Angharad adds. "It's not you, it's--"

Ace nods. "I know. I understand." He sighs. "Honestly, I'm only stickin' 'round to make sure he doesn't do it to anyone else."

Cheedo whistles. "You wanna leave the NHL?"

"No, no." He shakes his head. "The War Boys. I'm done with the franchise, but who's gonna watch Joe and his bastards, y'know?"

Furiosa's skin crawls; it's all the talking and thinking about Joe. And then feels something move, starts to internally panic, looks to see it's Max, who's half awake and still using her as a pillow. He slowly blinks and rubs at his eyes. And she calms down a little. Really, and she momentarily hates herself for thinking this, he's kind of cute when he's sleepy like this. It makes him look younger, softer.

"His bastards?" Dag asks as she hands each War Boy a mug of tea.

"Corpus and Rictus," Nux says. "They're his sons."

"When?" Cheedo asks. "And who the hell's their mother?"

Ace snorts. "No idea. Been tryin' to figure it out fer ages? Who the hell would have a kid, let alone two, with Joe?"

"What's so bad about 'im?" Max asks, rubbing at his face, an odd habit Furiosa's noticed is usually coupled with pulling at his hair and occasionally biting his lip or stomping.

Nux, Slit, and Morsov look expectant as Furiosa, Ace, Capable, Dag, Cheedo, and Angharad exchange a look, the fact not everyone knows what Joe did, that in fact no many people know because if more people did there's no way Joe would have been allowed to continue on as the Georgia Wasteland's coach in the AHL and then move up to be the Atlanta War Boys' coach, suddenly dawning upon them. And it's a fucking shame nobody knows, that six players, five of them female and one of them agender, stepping forward with rape allegations did nothing to slow or stop Joe's career, his moving up in the ranks.

It's dead silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock, a sound that agitates Max and sets him on edge-- he grips the blanket, his knuckles turning white, twitches, and bites his lip-- as everyone waits for someone else to speak first.

It's Angharad, splendid Angharad, who breaks the silence.

"He was our coach," ze begins. "We played for Georgia Wasteland in the AHL and we were all certainly going to play for the War Boys. J--"

"Who's we?" Morsov asks.

"Myself, Dag, Furiosa, Cheedo, Capable, Toast, and Ace were all on the team together," ze answers. "We were a damn good team too. Won the Calder Cup three years in a row."

Slit whistles. "Chrome."

"Yeah, that's real shiny," Nux adds.

Angharad continues. "Now, you know what Joe's like. Frankly, he's an ass and that's putting it nicely. He-- Fuck, I don't know how to say--" She closes her eyes, tightly grips a pillow.

"You don't," Max chokes out, his voice leaving him and he's angry at Joe for doing whatever it was, whatever has obviously hurt them, and at himself for being unable to force words out. He wants to claw them out and spill them all over the floor, wants to fill book after book to the brim with words words words and toss them in a fire for all the good they've done him. But he can't. He can't get the words out and he can't do anything to Joe; that makes it worse.

He can't finish the sentence.

No one comments.

"Would you believe me if I said he's a rapist?" Angharad asks. "It started small. He'd ask weirdly personal questions, then it was pats on the back and other touches, but they felt wrong."

"Wait. Why's he still allowed to coach if he's done that?" Morsov asks. "The NHL would give him the boot fer sure, right?"

Angharad blinks back tears and Ace scoots a bit closer to zir, puts an arm around zir. Furiosa feels sick and cold, and feeling Max's trembling isn't helping much. Dag and Cheedo hold onto each other, and Capable runs a hand through her hair while trying to maintain her composure.

"What about Corpus and Rictus?" Nux asks. "Ace, you said you were watching them. Have they-- have they done this too?"

"Not that I know," Ace answers. "But I can't leave anyone on a team with Joe anymore. I know what he's like."

"That's why we made a new team," Capable adds. "It was easier for us all. We didn't have to explain ourselves to anyone."

Max looks like he wants to speak, opens and closes his mouth, but makes no sounds.

"I don't know what to think of Rictus and Corpus," Ace says. "Rictus is 'bout as smart as a pile of bricks, but you saw his size, how dangerous he could be if he's like his father. Corpus is small, but the kid's brilliant, scary brilliant if he's like Joe."

"Fuck," Furiosa breathes. "Have you seen them try anything?"

"No." Ace shakes his head. "They moved up this year. Was their first NHL game tonight." He looks up at the clock on the wall and squints as he reads; he probably needs to get his eyes checked. "Well, technically it was yesterday, but y'know what I mean."

Furiosa nods, chews on her lower lip.

"I'll keep an eye on 'em, promise," Ace adds. "Joe too. Nothing's happenin' to anyone on my watch."

Nux stares at the ground, deep in thought and frowning. His eyes aren't quite focused on one spot in particular, but look far away. Something looks broken; Furiosa knows that look well and she hates seeing it on someone so young and full of energy.

"How bad was it?" Nux asks, suddenly looking up from the ground. "What Joe did, how bad?"

"It was all of us, all five of us," Dag answers. "It lasted nearly out entire time playing for Wasteland."

"Fuck," Nux breathes and it sounds close to a sob; Max's face looks how Nux's voice sounds and he looks like he wants to say something, anything, but the words won't come out no matter how hard he tries.

There's a block and Max is scared-- he's always scared, really, because someone else might die or get hurt like Jessie and Goose and Furiosa and Dag and Cheedo and Toast and Angharad and Capable, and there's nothing he can do --because he thought that block was slowly disappearing. He was talking! He played a whole game today! And his intrusive thoughts stopped during the game! He feels sick and the thoughts, the Bad ones, are back as he sees way after way after way to kill himself in the room and his chest feels heavy because the ways don't sound all that bad this time.

"I-- I'm sorry," Ace says as he looks at the clock again. "It's late. Or early. Depends. We should go. Got a flight to catch."

Awkwardly, the War Boys stand and exchange their goodbyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Furiosa can't believe the time as she finally lays down in bed with an ache in her chest. She knows she won't sleep; there's no way she'll be able to, not while her skin crawls like this as she feels one of Joe's phantom hands crawl up her leg, while the other is on her chest. She runs to the bathroom and throws up in the toilet. She wants his hands off her, wants them off his body and his body off this planet, as far away from her as possible.

He made them feel good, played on the fact they were woman (and an agender individual) in hockey through compliments and praise, more than he gave the men. They got special attention and training that eventually grew more and more personal until it turned too personal. By that point, it was too late.

Joe was well-established. He'd played his time in the NHL, won his Stanley Cups. Who'd believe a bunch of AHL nobodies if they made the accusations public? If anything, they'd be whores and sluts and liars, and Joe would be the poor coach framed by a bunch of bitches.

Furiosa throws up again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Max wakes up on the floor with Dog curled up next to him and an empty beer bottle by his head. Everything's foggy and his tongue feels heavy, the kind of heavy that means he won't be speaking today. His mind supplies him with methods: break the bottle and use that to slash your own neck, hang yourself from the ceiling fan, drown yourself in the bathtub, overdose.

His hands shake as he extracts his phone from his pocket. He pauses and looks at his hands. There's blood under his fingernails. He looks harder. There's bloody scratches on his arms.

And Jessie's watching him from the couch. She's crying and asking him why. She's missing bits and pieces and she's bloody like she was when her body was extracted from the wreck.

Max screams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If Furiosa had slept the text would have woken her, but she hadn't slept, so it only momentarily pulled her from hellish memories of Joe and the Georgia Wasteland. Slowly, she pulls her phone from her pocket, amazed it hasn't died, and reads the text.

Max: I'm sorry but I can't come to practice anymore. I'm off the team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The AHL is the American Hockey League (though there are 3 Canadian teams) and it's a developmental circuit for the NHL so players will start there. Each AHL team is affiliated with an NHL team. The Georgia Wasteland (AHL) is associated with the Atlanta War Boys (NHL). AHL teams play for the Calder Cup. 
> 
> I've had my first week of senior year already and it seems alright. Please remember that my updates are at the mercy of school and homework. 
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, etc. please don't hesitate and thank you for reading!


	5. Worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exciting stuff in this chapter!

Furiosa blinks, the text taking a few minutes for her to understand. She's tired and shaking and feels sick, her stomach in coils, and a pressure building up inside her. She considers taking the day off, calling off practice. What does he mean? Off the team? 

She curses and texts him back.

Furiosa: At least come today please

She waits, gives him half an hour, but he doesn't answer. She fears the worst but tells herself it's unrealistic. If he hasn't done it already, he wouldn't now.

She texts again.

Furiosa: Max? 

She lets another half an hour go by, half an hour of alternating between feeling phantom hands crawling up her sides and seeing Max dead, before calling him. 

No one picks up and she wants to throw up again-- God, she's thrown up so many times today-- feels the bile rising, because she can picture it too clearly. 

Quickly, she gets dressed in something loose and baggy because she doesn't want to feel like something, or someone, is touching her, and runs to the war rig, forgetting to put on shoes. Before pulling out, she texts Angharad. 

Furiosa: I'll be late for practice. Don't know how late. You're in charge 

Angharad, already at the rink, frowns as ze looks at zir phone. Toast, fully recovered from her cold and lacing up her skates, pauses when she sees Angharad's facial expression. 

"Who was that?" she asks.

"Furiosa," ze answers. "Says she'll be late." 

"Why?"

"Doesn't say."

Angharad texts her back, still frowning and overcome with worry, especially after the tense conversation last night.

Angharad: Why? Are you okay? 

Furiosa curses and hits the steering wheel, frustrated that today's the one day there's ridiculous traffic between her house and Max's, making what should be a fifteen minute drive feel eternal. Her text tone momentarily cheers her up. She doesn't text because she's at the wheel, even though she's not moving. Logically, she knows it could be Angharad or, really, anyone on the team or maybe Ace too; pretending it's Max feels the best so that's what she does.

The house feels wrong, even from the driveway. It's quiet and still and Dog isn't barking as she knocks on the front door. No one answers and her heart starts to pound. She wishes someone else was with her, but is also glad she came alone because she doesn't know how the others would take it. 

Cursing, she fishes in her pockets for the key; since the offseason, she and Max had both somehow acquired keys to the other's house. She never thought it would come in handy for this. 

She quickly pushes the door open to reveal a quiet house with all the lights off. Dog pads up to her, wagging his stump tail, and she scratches his head before walking in. She doesn't see him and she starts to panic, starts hyperventilating. But she sees Dog plod behind the couch. Something tells her to follow him and she listens to it.

And there he is. 

Max is lying on his side on the ground with his bloody hands covering his face, scratches up and down his arms, and one beer bottle next to him. He doesn't particularly look dead, she thinks, so she takes a step closer; he also doesn't look like he's breathing, though. Slowly, she crouches next to him and she can see his eyes look puffy like he's been crying and his phone's nowhere to be seen. Dog, who lies next to him, wags his tail. 

She reaches out and gently shakes his shoulder. "Max?"

He stirs, slowly cracking open his red-rimmed puffy eyes, and she feels a weight lift off her chest and she wants to hug him and cry, but also wants to kick him for scaring her like that. She refrains from kicking him; he doesn't need that right now. Instead, she runs her skin-and-bone hand through his hair and makes quiet reassuring sounds as he curls up on himself and shakes. She hates the way he shakes, wants to hold him still. 

"I-- I," he stammers, struggling to force out the goddamn words. "I--" 

She moves so she's sitting next to him and rubs circles on his back. "Take deep breaths. It'll make it easier to talk." 

"I-- I did--" He rubs his face with his bloody hands and she can see the blood under his fingernails. Strangely enough, she feels a little better now she knows he didn't do this with a knife or razor blade. "I-- This is Bad and-- and I-- I'm not supposed--" 

"It's okay." She doesn't know when she apparently became the one who comforts others. Really, even when they all survived playing for Joe, she was never the comforter. It was always Angharad. She awkwardly suffered it alone and didn't step back into a leadership role until everyone was relatively better, better enough to not need her. She never knows what to do, how to make people feel better. "Max, you're okay." 

He makes a quiet sound, almost a sob, but doesn't try to speak again. She hums as she continues to rub circles. His breathing slows and becomes less irregular until it's almost back to normal. Dog wags his tail as he watches them from where he lies next to Max, unable to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. Somehow Dog makes it feel lighter with his bright eyes and constant optimism characteristic to dogs that all things are great, especially things involving their humans. 

"Do you have any rubbing alcohol?" she asks. "I'm going to clean your arms." 

He nods. "Bathroom under the sink." 

"Okay. Stay here." 

It feels wrong to walk through the house alone. She's not sure how to describe it, but there's something going on in her chest and she doesn't know what it is. Quite frankly, she doesn't care to figure it out until his arms are clean. 

The bathroom is sterile clean, the kind of clean only hospitals achieve, and it sends a chill down her spine as she digs through the cabinet below the sink. Pills. It's full of bottles of pills, some she recognizes the names of and some she doesn't. Looks like Max has a fun combo of anxiety, PTSD, and something else she can't identify; there's a bottle of pills she can't pin a diagnosis to. Suddenly, she pauses with her hands just above the rubbing alcohol with a tight feeling in her chest, ashamed of how invasive digging around was. 

As quickly as she can without appearing scared-- she wants to get out of that room but doesn't want to alarm Max or Dog-- she makes her way back to the living room where Max still lies on the ground with the rubbing alcohol and some cotton balls. She sits next to him, and he makes a quiet noise as he sits up and holds out his arm. He tightly closes his eyes, bracing himself, and she quietly laughs as she presses the cotton ball to the mouth of the bottle and quickly dumps it. 

"It'll sting," she warns seconds before pressing the cotton to his skin.

He squeaks and stiffens, fighting the urge to pull away. 

Dog raises his head, and looks over at them with his ears raised and head tilted to the side, but he doesn't move to help his human. Traitor, Max thinks. 

"I'm sorry," she says as she gets another cotton ball ready. "Can you do it one more time?" 

He quickly nods, keeping his eyes closed and arms stiff. 

She talks him through it this time even though it's only a few seconds, but the words keep coming; she keeps talking. 

"I'm glad you're okay. You really-- you really scared me, okay?" she explains. "I've known people who've-- I thought you were dead and I panicked, so here I am. Please don't-- I know you-- fuck." 

She hadn't noticed she'd closed her eyes but she opens them to see Max looking right at her. He usually doesn't make eye contact and when he doesn't, he generally can't maintain it, but he's holding it steady now. He still looks scared-- he always does-- but he's looking at her and not flinching away or avoiding her gaze or closing his eyes. 

She's looking at his lips and they're nice lips, she'll admit. She's never noticed that before. And she feels a little shame, hopes her face isn't red, that she'd be noticing that now, given how stressful today was. Really, it's not the best moment to pin down that flutter in her chest and to realize what it means and to want to do something about it. 

Max's breath catches in his throat and it's a different kind of stuck, not the kind that strips him of his voice. In fact, he wants to speak; he finds he suddenly has lots of words pressing on him, pressing on his tongue. And he tries to pry his eyes from her lips because it feels so inappropriate to scare someone and then want to kiss them. His hands itch with inactivity and he fights the urge to pick at his arms as he tries (and fails) to look anywhere except her lips. 

He's vaguely aware of the fact he's shaking. Well, he always shakes, but he usually doesn't feel like quite like this. He's more aware of the fact he's staring at Furiosa's lips and she's staring at his. 

Slowly, slowly the gap between them disappears as they both move closer. Dog huffs, uninterested in his human's antics. All Dog knows is that he likes Furiosa because she gives him belly rubs and pets. 

Their lips meet and it's a slow kiss, but there's tongue. There's definitely tongue. Max is vaguely aware of her hand on the back of his head, her fingers gripping his hair, and she feels his hands on her back. The pace picks up, becoming more desperate, and they move so Furiosa's on top of Max. He's on his back on the floor and she's on top of him and he's more than okay with that. 

She looks down at him and he's a sight. He's really a sight. Even with scraped up arms, he's really easy on the eyes. Good build too. Muscly, but not too much. He's good underhand. Sturdy. He's not built to be thin. 

His breath catches in his throat and he's losing his words and his heart's pounding faster than he thinks it's ever pound before, but she's beautiful. And he can't believe this actually happened. 

Furiosa's the one to break it up. She looks down at him, smiling. 

"So, um--"

"That happened," he finishes.

She laughs. "Yeah, it did." 

He grins. "And we're?" 

"Yeah." She nods. "I guess we are." She pauses. "Oh, God, we're never going to hear the end of it." 

He laughs, rubbing his face. "No way in hell." 

She quietly hums and rests her head on his chest. He's broad; she likes that. And she listens to him breathe. He wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes. 

"I should tell them," she says, "where I am. Angharad knows I'd be late to practice, but nothing else."

He nods, keeping his eyes closed. "Mmhm." 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, a terribly awkward task while lying on top of someone, and she nearly punches him in the face in the process. 

Furiosa: I'm ok

Angharad pulls her phone out of her back and slightly frowns. It's unlike Furiosa to miss an entire day of practice like this. Normally, they'd have a couple day's warning first. 

Angharad: You sure?  
Furiosa: Yes  
Furiosa: I'm at Max's house  
Angharad: Why?  
Furiosa: I was worried about him. He's ok  
Angharad: Good 

"Hey," Furiosa says, excitement leaking into her voice, prompting Max to open his eyes. "Wanna know what I just remembered?"

"What?" he asks.

"Tomorrow's our pucks and paws calendar photoshoot," she answers, and he breaks into a large grin and even laughs.

Smiling's a damn good look on him. 

"Really?" he replies and, damn, he sounds excited. 

Furiosa: We'll both be at the photoshoot tomorrow. Don't worry  
Angharad: Ok  
Angharad: How did he scare you?  
Furiosa: Long story. Said he was off the team, didn't answer phone. Thought he offed himself. He didn't. I've been here all day. He's good  
Furiosa: We're good 

We're really good, she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paws and pucks is amazing. A lot of real NHL teams do it, not jus my made up ones, (though under different names) and what it is is a calendar with the players posing with shelter dogs up for adoption for a calendar. And it's adorable!  
> So the next chapter will be happy. It'll be the paws and pucks photoshoot. And who loves dogs? Max does! So he'll be happy.


	6. Lizards and Pucks

Max doesn't want to go. He understands there will be dogs, as Furiosa made sure of in an attempt to maybe make him somewhat enthusiastic, and that's Good there will be dogs, but he's tired and he'd rather it just be Dog. And Furiosa. That would be Good too. 

But he has to go. Apparently, it's part of his contract or agreement or some other damn paper he signed at some point in time while under enormous pressure and probably panicking. So there's no way out of the pucks and paws calendar photoshoot. 

It's not that he hates the calendar because he doesn't. It's for a good cause; a lot of the dogs pictured in it are up for adoption and a lot do later get adopted. It's promotion for the ASPCA. It's the noise that makes him dread going. It's the lights and how the dogs look so sad in their crates until their photo set begins. 

He always gets an itch to release them, to pull off the locks and let the dogs run free. 

As Furiosa talks to the head of photography, he stands with the rest of the team and watches the dogs with his head tilted to the side and decides they don't look too bad. Unhappy in the crates as expected, but not unhealthy or hurt. It doesn't make the itch any lesser; he still wants to release them.

Dag catches his eye and mouths, "what?" while nodding towards the dogs. Discreetly, he mimes, or at least makes a very shoddy attempt to, opening the cages. He tries not to laugh as she smiles and nods, obviously approving his idea. 

He's still trying not to laugh as Furiosa explains how the shoot will work.

Furiosa doesn't know what happened, what she's missed that put Max in such a great mood in the ten minutes she was talking to the photoshoot director that completely transformed his mood from sullenly pouting-- he claimed it wasn't pouting but it was-- to grinning and occasionally glancing at the dogs, which only makes him smile more. Strangely enough, Dag looks like she's trying not to laugh too. Weird. 

Angharad poses with a golden retriever first in poses that are supposed to appear natural but obviously aren't. Ze's too stiff, too awkward to be natural, but the dog is fine. 

The dogs are always fine in these shoots; it's the people who screw up. 

And Max is the master of screwing up. He's either too stiff or too relaxed or looks too excited, which he is-- who's not excited when they have a little pug on their lap?-- or looks too tired, which he also is. It's aggravating and his head hurts and his hands are shaking halfway through his pictures with the pug which they only need one of for the month of May. 

Furiosa and a border collie have a terrible shoot. They picked the most nervous, neurotic dog in the shelter and Max sympathizes with the poor dog; he's also stressed out by the lights and sounds. And the poor dog whines throughout all the pictures, so they scrap them all.

Dag is just too awkward no matter what they try and no matter what dog they pose her with, they decide. They almost take her month out until Cheedo raises a fuss about it and everyone else backs her up. 

Angharad's shoot goes well. 

Cheedo's dog is about as big as she is and knocks her over. 

Capable wants to pose with the hairless dog and the director of photography refuses to allow it on the grounds of "who brought that rat dog?"

Which is Max's final straw. He's tired and shaky and it's too hot and loud. And he snaps. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, he's a Chinese crested and his name's Jeremy!" he replies, apparently sounding a lot more pissed off and closer to tears than he intends and thinks from the looks he receives. "Don't call him a-- a rat dog!" 

Toast's eyes widen, while Dag laughs. The photoshoot director exchanges a look with Furiosa, a look Max knows well and knows it means "deal with him or else." So she walks over and squeezes his shoulder. 

"You okay?" she quietly asks. 

He nods. "Mmm." 

"You sure?" 

He nods again. "I want to let them out."

"Who?"

"Dogs." 

The nose she makes it somewhere between an exasperated but fond sigh and a laugh. "Really?"

He nods. "They look sad." 

"Do it."

He blinks, surprised she would endorse this. "Hmm?"

"I want you to release the dogs. This is boring as all hell and I want to die." 

He breaks into a large, almost childish grin. It's not adorable, she tells herself, and she doesn't want to hug him and urge him to free all the dogs in the world. But that grin is no doubt really really nice on him and she'd like to see it more often. 

It's worth it even more to watch him crouch by the cages and talk to the dogs like they're people like he does with Dog, like they all saw him do with Dag's lizards after the game, because he looks so happy with them all. Toast moves so she's standing next to Furiosa.

"What's your Fool doing?" she asks as the camera flashes; it's another shot of Capable with a poodle. 

Furiosa grins. "Gave him permission to release the dogs." 

Toast snickers. "That'll make this fun for once. He gonna do it?" 

"Probably."

"Good." 

All throughout the shoot, Max lights up every time he's handed a new dog to work with. Even the hairless one, a Chinese crested named Jeremy he'd defended earlier, warms his heart. In fact, he smiles too much according to the photoshoot director who scolds him during every shot. 

While Cheedo and Capable are in the middle of a partner shoot, Max slowly makes his way towards the cages as inconspicuously as he can, which, really, isn't all that inconspicuous, but the photographers pay him, the oddball who speaks to the dogs, no mind. Furiosa, Dag, Toast, and Angharad silently cheer him on as he undoes the first few latches. The dogs don't leave the cages until he opens the doors. 

And then all hell breaks loose as all the dogs are free. 

Max is laughing so hard he falls to his knees, and then lies on his side on the ground, letting the dogs crawl all over him and lick his face. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Angharad laughs into zir milkshake. "We've never been kicked out of a venue before." 

"Yes, we have," Capable corrects between sips of her milkshake. 

"When?" Max asks, still feeling the happy effects of being licked nearly to death by a swarm of excited dogs. He's practically beaming. 

"We, uh, were a bit too rowdy at, like, a Walmart once," Capable answers. "That's when we played for Wasteland. Furiosa and Ace fought with foam swords and they broke." 

Furiosa smiles into her drink as Max laughs into his. She managed to take a multitude of great pictures on her phone in all the chaos. She's looking at the pictures to find the best ones to upload to the all the team social media accounts when her phone rings. It's the photography company. 

"Guys, guys," she says, hushing them. "It's the photography company already."

When she answers the phone, she attempts to sound as calm and inconspicuous as possible. "Yes?" Pause. "That was us." Pause. "We sincerely-- Oh, there's no calendar?" Pause. "No good pictures? That's a shame because I got some good ones on my phone." Max chokes on his milkshake and Dag pounds on his back. "Goodbye."

Furiosa hangs up just in time for Max to start choking again due to a combination of laughter and eating too fucking fast all the time. Dag comes to the rescue again. 

"Maybe if you would eat like a normal person," Toast grumbles. 

"Oh god," Furiosa grumbles, sliding a napkin across the table to Max. "Clean yourself up." 

Max hmmps as he accepts the napkin and wipes off his face, grumbling about his eating habits, including speed, being completely fine despite the amount of choking he does. 

"So what's the verdict?" Toast asks.

"There's no calendar," Furiosa answers. "Basically, they tried to politely tell me all our pictures suck and we're on our own, but I got good pictures on my phone, so--"

"Can we do the lizard calendar?" Dag interrupts. "Please? Lily will love it!"

"Lily is a gecko," Capable sighs. "I don't think she'll care." 

"For Lily," Max adds. "Let's do it for Lily." 

Furiosa groans because this is too much. She could resist them on their own, but Max and Dag? That's too much; she can't say no to both of them at once. 

"Fine. Fine," Furiosa concedes. "We'll do it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Max stands with a snake wrapped around his shoulders and the worst grin Furiosa has ever seen, obviously failing to hide his horror as the snake moves. He takes quick, shallow breaths and tries not to scream or throw Dag's precious Python, Ruby. Ruby flicks out her tongue and Dag coos while Max pales and nervously swallows. 

"Can-- can I have a lizard?" he squeaks. "Or just-- just not a snake, please?" 

Dag sighs and takes Ruby back. "Are you sure?"

He quickly nods, failing to find the proper words to speak. Furiosa and Angharad watch one of the smaller snakes in its tank, while Toast and Cheedo lounge on the couch together. Capable is texting someone, as she's been doing nearly all day. But who? The entire team is there; who else could it be?

Max visibly relaxes when Dag gently places Lily the leopard gecko in his hands. Lily, a very calmly lizard, doesn't move quite as much as Ruby the snake, who moved up his arms and towards his neck. He doesn't really pose with Lily as much as he stands with her and grins as Dag takes the pictures. 

At the end of the day, they have twelve good pictures with various lizards and snakes chosen for the calendar and no idea who Capable is texting. Snooping provides them with nothing, as she's quite skilled at hiding her phone and evading questions. Even attempts to take her phone by force fail, resulting in tussles and bruises. 

The next obvious step is ordering pizza and breaking out some beers.

After a couple more choking incidents, Max splays out on the couch, his head in Furiosa's lap, and Toast snickers. She runs a hand through his hair and quietly hums. 

"So who're you texting?" Angharad asks Capable. "C'mon, tell us, please."

"No one!" Capable answers far too quickly for it to be true.

Cheedo laughs. "Oooh, someone's got a crush. Who's the lucky person?"

"I said it's no one," Capable repeats.

Even Max laughs. "You're lying," he mumbles, speech slightly slurred. "I can tell." 

Furiosa nods. "You can trust us."

Capable considers it for a moment, and then relents. "Fine. It's Nux." 

Toast looks up. "The War Boys' goalie?"

"Yeah." Capable nods. "Him." 

"Really?" Toast asks.

Capable nods again. "He's actually really sweet despite the whole punk thing he has going on. He's really into cars and it's kind of adorable how he gets about it." 

"That's good he's nice," Angharad says and the group mumbles their approval in various stages on drunkenness. 

"So," Cheedo begins. "What about you two?"

"What two?" Max asks. 

"You and Furiosa," Cheedo answers. "Who else? What's going on here?"

Furiosa and Max exchange a look before Furiosa answers. "We may or may not be kind of dating." 

"So it's official that you've stopped your dumb mutual pining?" Capable asks. "Because it was annoying to see you making heart eyes at each other across the rink."

"What?" Max sputters.

"We don't do that!" Furiosa objects, just as outraged. 

"You totally do," Toast states. "It's pretty bad." 

"Do not!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Furiosa wakes up slouched over on Dag and Cheedo's couch with a raging headache, a dry mouth, and someone-- she opens her eyes to see it's Max-- lying on her and snoring really fucking loudly. She runs a hand through his hair as she surveys the room, sees the team lying around in various stages of awake and hungover or still asleep. And this is good. It's nice to have a team and to know they're all safe and happy, or at least happier than they were years ago playing for Joe. Or, in Max's case, apparently happier or at least in a better state of mind than a couple days ago. It could be momentary. He could relapse later that day or tomorrow. But he's fine now. They're all fine now.

Furiosa can breathe easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And I'd also like to let you know I read and reply to every single comment. I'm really glad this fic is accessible to those who don't watch hockey. I'm really happy with the reception I've gotten with this. Thank you.


	7. Top Gun

Two more games go by, one a loss and the other a win, leaving them at a 2-1 season thus far, the calendar arrives in the mail and sells, and absolutely nothing has gone wrong. No one has died-- Max has to talk himself out of a panic during every car ride as he's bombarded by images of Sprog and Jessie dead in an overturned car and he feels sick-- and he hasn't broken down on the ice again and he hasn't hurt anyone else or himself.

And he's fucking terrified. 

Slowly, he walks into the rink that early Monday morning with a feeling of foreboding doom pressing down on him. The words catch in his throat; he can't speak when Angharad asks him how his weekend was. He blinks, embarrassed, and looks away, shaking and unable to answer. 

He bites his nails as the team talks about their weekends. They had a free weekend due to lack of a game and it seems everyone did something besides him, and he rubs at his face, angry he hadn't found the energy to leave the house. When asked, he forces out that he had a lazy weekend with Dog, not that he was too scared by everything to leave Dog's side and the safety of his home. 

Furiosa frowns as she watches Max, noticing how he's hunched over and not meeting anyone's eyes and nervously scanning the room, paying particular attention to corners, and rubbing at his face. He's exhausted and sleep has been evading him and nothing bad has happened. 

The lights over the ice are too bright and the ice is too white; it momentarily blinds him. He feels a hand on his shoulder, but can't see who it is and his heart starts pounding erratically. 

"Hm?" he asks.

"Max?" It's Angharad. He relaxes a little. "Do you need to go outside or home?" 

He quickly nods. "Mmhm." 

Ze grabs his hand, and leads him off the rink and outside. Max whines high and slides so he's sitting with his back against the wall. Silently, Angharad sits beside him, their sides touching. Ze takes out zir phone and texts Furiosa.

Angharad: outside w/ Max. We're ok. Start without us

"Are you alright?" ze asks. "Sick at all? I know I've felt pretty shitty under the lights with a fever before." 

"Tired," he grumbles. "Didn't sleep." 

He doesn't look at zir. Instead, he stares off into the parking lot, watching the heat waves over the baking concrete. It's oppressive, especially in all his gear. 

There's movement. Something in the parking lot and it's moving. He stiffens, whines, stares at it as that heavy dread in his stomach grows and he feels sick. 

"Max?" ze asks, reading zir stick to use as a weapon if needed. "What is it?"

He opens his mouth to speak, tries to force words out, but nothing comes out. Betrayed by his owns faults yet again, he whines and fails to feel that his face is wet. He's crying. 

There's a woman crossing the street in front of them. She's coming towards the rink and she's on the crosswalk, safe, when a truck comes racing down the street towards her and he screams, seeing the car, a small red car, flip over, instead of the black truck barreling towards the woman. Tires screech and he closes his eyes, but all he sees is blood, and Jessie and Sprog's bodies after they call him after his game as he stands over the car and screams. 

"No! No!" With each word, he hits the side of his leg. Ze's glad he's wearing all his padding. "Jessie! Sprog! He hit--" 

There are hands on him. Warm hands. And he shakes as those hands press against his forehead and run through his hair. Angharad holds Max up as he goes limp. His head lolls to the side and his eyes close. Ze curses, gently lowering his head to the ground before texting Furiosa again.

Angharad: max is out. Taking him home. He's not well

Furiosa, in the locker room, frowns when she hears her phone, wondering who the hell it could possibly be when the entire team is present. 

"Fuck."

Toast blinks, in the middle of lacing up her skates. "What?"

"Angharad's taking Max home," Furiosa sighs. "Don't know why."

Furiosa: why?  
Angharad: he was panicky and weird and then we saw a woman almost get hit by a truck. He was screaming and passed out. He was to go home  
Furiosa: want me to come?  
Angharad: you want to take him?  
Furiosa: sure, I know the way to his house and what's in his house well  
Angharad: thanks. We're by the front doors

Furiosa leaves after offering a quick explanation to Toast, running out in all her gear, minus skates, to find Angharad siting on the ground with Max's head in her lap. He's limp, shaky, breathing erratically. Ze runs a hand through his hair. 

"Help me carry him?" Furiosa asks.

Angharad nods, and together the two of them manage to pick him up and half carry-half drag him into the passenger seat of the War Rig, an impressive task as they're both hindered by their gear. Max remains out cold throughout the entire process and doesn't awaken even when almost dropped. 

It's a silent drive, which makes it feel long. Really, it's about twenty minutes, but the silence pierces her. Music feels wrong with Max twitching and mumbling, caught in some sort of dream or hallucination in the seat next to her. She feels sick. She saw his medical records; she shouldn't feel as surprised as she is. 

Anxiety. PTSD. Hallucinations. 

She's seen the other two, seen him anxious and shaking and sick, and seen him suffering flashbacks. But not like this. Whatever happened in the parking lot-- whatever he thought had happened-- hadn't really. Angharad told her he'd been screaming about his wife and son and hitting himself. 

Dog barks as she unlocks the door and lets herself inside, confused by her presence while Max isn't there. When she returns with Max, Dog noticeably relaxes and follows them to Max's room, wagging his stump tail and happy his human is back. 

She turns to go to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, but stops before her hand touches the doorknob. She turns around, suddenly very bothered by the fact he's in all his gear. In fact, it's bothering her so much she has to do something about it, so she does her best to take it all off him. It's a long process, really awkward too, but she eventually manages to strip him down to just his boxers and places a blanket over him.

Dog hops up onto bed next to him. 

Furiosa leans against the bed for a few minutes, not moving. A deep exhaustion lurks, waiting to pounce on her and she's already tired, tired from practice and tired with worry. And a part of her still secretly fears that Toast was right and that allowing Max to play isn't good for him. And seeing Joe a couple games ago shook her. There's always Joe who got away clean despite their accusations and-- and she has to stop thinking about him because she can feel his hands and breath on her.

After changing into some of Max's clothes, she does chores to fend him off. She dusts the bookshelf and does the dishes and vacuums the living room carpet. She refills Dog's water and food. She even takes Dog on a walk and makes herself lunch. By the time she's done all the chores she can think of, it's about 9:00 PM, so she decides to call it a night. 

But the couch feels too quiet and too alone and she can feel Joe's eyes on her, so she quickly walks down the hall, resisting the urge to run, to Max's room. When she opens the door, Dog raises his head to watch her, but doesn't bark. 

"Hey, Dog," she quietly greets. "You gonna let me in?" 

Max makes quiet sounds in his sleep and his face twitches. Dog whines and flattens his ears against his head, but doesn't challenge her and she slips into bed next to Max, takes off her prosthetic arm, and wraps her arm and stump (the best it can) around him. Max buries his face in her side and she can feel him trembling. 

She knows she won't be able to sleep tonight. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Max wakes to something warm next to him that's noticeably not Dog because Dog is lying on top of him like the asshole he is. He keeps his eyes closed for a few minutes after he knows he's awake, and then he opens them to see Furiosa lying next to him but not looking at him. She's facing the window, watching the sunrise that dyes the room orange and casts a light over her. She looks like she's glowing and he tries not to gasp, but she hears him anyway.

"Max? You awake?"

He nods. "Mmm."

"Feeling any better?" She turns to face him. 

He nods again. "Mmm." 

"Good. I told the team we probably won't be coming today. That okay?"

"Mmm." 

He quietly sighs and closes his eyes again. She pulls him close and rubs small circles on his back as he hums. Dog watches them, jealous he's not getting any attention. 

"What happened yesterday?" she quietly asks. 

He opens his eyes. "Couldn't stop-- I thought-- Jessie and Sprog-- I couldn't stop thinking about it and-- and Angharad and I almost saw-- I think that woman was hit. I don't know."

"She's alive."

"Hm?"

"The woman from yesterday. The truck stopped. She's okay." She runs a hand through his hair. "She's fine." 

He grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Angharad and I saw. She wasn't hit." 

Max presses his forehead against her and hums. She laughs and accidentally kicks his shin, but not hard. He still feigns hurt as he grabs his leg and groans. 

"You dork. That didn't hurt."

Max groans. "Dog, why aren't you protecting me?" 

Dog sighs. 

Furiosa shoves him. "Your dog is a loser." 

"Dog is wonderful!" 

She shoves him again and he tumbles off the bed, landing on his back. She mumbles, "oh, God," and sticks her head off the edge of the bed to see him laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. She reaches down to pull him up, only to be knocked off the bed by none other than Dog. 

"Oof." 

"Sorry. Sorry."

She's lying on top of him and they're lying nose-to-nose and this is ridiculous, so she kisses him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Who're we playing next?" Max asks as he eats a bowl of cereal.

Furiosa sits next to him on the couch as she looks through his DVD collection. "The Gas Town Polecats, I think." 

"Oh shit, they're good."

She sighs as his DVD collection, frustrated by his taste in movies. "Why the hell do you have two copies of Top Gun?"

"Fuckin' love Top Gun."

She groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Top Gun.
> 
> Sorry. I'm not feeling too great about this chapter, actually. The next one, which will be a game against the Gas Town Polecats, will be better, I promise.


	8. Announcement!

If anyone's still paying attention to this fic, I wanted to let you know I'm rewriting it! Since the last update, I've had a friend die, had a family member die, done college apps, taken 4 AP exams, come out to my parents as trans, moved across the US, chosen a college, had my college orientation, turned 18, and gotten a diagnosis on something causing me chronic pain for 4 years now. This is my favorite fic idea I've ever had, so I'm not going to let it die. I'm going to rewrite it as repost it with the same title, so don't worry. 

Please comment to let me know people have seen this announcement.

Thank you!


	9. Announcement Part 2

Sorry it's taken me so long to rewrite this fic! I'm still currently tearing away at it. I just felt I owed you guys some sort of update. Essentially, for my rewrite, the plot is staying the same; I just feel I'm a better writer at this point and I lost momentum big time with the first version. 

As for updates on me, I'm in college. I'm going to pride tomorrow. I'm still working on those chronic pain issues. But I'm doing well.

Thank you so much for sticking around and keep an eye out for the rewrite. I'll post an announcement/update on here when chapter 1 of the rewrite is up.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a quick guide to the teams and who plays what position!
> 
> •Team: Las Vegas Citadel  
> Furiosa: right wing (team captain)  
> Max: left wing  
> Angharad: goalie  
> The Dag: center  
> Cheedo: defenseman- right  
> Capable: defenseman- left  
> Toast: any position, usually defenseman- right 
> 
> •Team: Atlanta War Boys  
> Corpus Colossus: right wing  
> Rictus Erectus: left wing  
> Nux: goalie  
> The Ace: center (team captain)  
> Morsov: defenseman- right  
> Slit: defenseman- left 
> 
> Please don't be afraid to comment! While kudos are nice, it's really comments that are best. That way I can accurately see what you're liking and what you want more of. Also, comments really just make my day. And I like interacting with you guys.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
